


petals in the breeze

by TheOnlyHuman



Series: i'll tell you my sins, so you can sharpen your knives [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: BAMF Jaskier | Dandelion, Canon-Typical Violence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Family Fluff, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Fever, Ivar Evil-Eye is a Good Man, Jaskier likes him, Jaskier | Dandelion Being a Feral Bastard, Jaskier | Dandelion Needs a Hug, Jaskier's a moody boi when he's older but he's an adorable munchkin when he young, Letho was a feral bastard of a child, Mean Townspeople with Suspicious Aldermen Included, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Parent Ivar Evil-Eye, Quiet Jaskier | Dandelion, Scarlet Fever | Scarlatina, The Witcher Lore, The Witcher's Mutagenic Trials, Viper School (The Witcher), Watch Out for Farmer's Pitchforks, Witcher Contracts, Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, Witchers Have Feelings (The Witcher), Young Jaskier | Dandelion, a slice of history, goes by julian for most of this becuase he's young for it, he doesn't talk as much over the years, i did so much research for this you wouldn't believe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-09
Updated: 2020-07-09
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:02:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25165117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOnlyHuman/pseuds/TheOnlyHuman
Summary: One night, Jaskier privately remarked that once he'd told stories freely, words slipping from his mouth quicker than the nightshade-tinted White Gull flowed into the pitchers. When the stories dried up to the horrors of the world, giving way to murky silence and a soul-eating weight on his shoulders, Jaskier had tied it to the fall of Gorthur Gvaed.That was a lie, for it was merely after the sacking when he truly realised how much he'd changed. The stories had stopped decades before, when he was still Julian.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion & Ivar Evil-Eye, Jaskier | Dandelion & Letho z Gulety | Letho of Gulet
Series: i'll tell you my sins, so you can sharpen your knives [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1822972
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35
Collections: Interesting Character and/or Interesting Relationship Development





	petals in the breeze

**Author's Note:**

> For a full experience read pepparkakor first, so you may fully understand jas

One night, Jaskier privately remarked that _once_ he'd told stories freely, words slipping from his mouth quicker than the nightshade-tinted White Gull flowed into the pitchers. When the stories dried up to the horrors of the world, giving way to murky silence and a soul-eating weight on his shoulders, Jaskier had tied it to the fall of Gorthur Gvaed.

That was a lie, for it was merely after the sacking when he truly realised how much he'd changed. The stories had stopped decades before, when he was still Julian.

When he was young he'd horded words like a dragon with gold. The words had been his sanctuary, a safe circle around him - just as Master Ivar formed Quens when monsters got too close, when little Julian got too scared the words came out.

He'd been picked up off the road as a mere toddler, barely able to walk nevermind listen. He'd certainly babbled enough for both himself and the soft-hearted witcher who'd picked him up. Julian would never learn the name of the man who brought him into this life and by the time he'd cared, the witcher was most certainly dead.

The boy could talk for days, could hum lyrics to odes his elders most certainly knew the tunes to whilst he did not. Julian was a force to be reckoned with, an infinite source of noise and joy despite his rearing in Gorthur Gvaed from the core age of two.

**FIVE**

At five summers he was a menace, taking explicit joy in pestering all who would talk to him - which was just about the entire keep.

One day, with the sun a sharp glint above all in the courtyard, Julian was humming. An older witcher, Vostaff, had taught him an old lullaby and the soft, lilting murmur to it had drawn the child like a moth to a flame. Today, he was humming that lullaby, sitting atop a wooden crate as he watched the young boys - but still far older than him - who'd passed the Trials this past spring spar a few feet over, sweating in the afternoon heat.

"You're like a hummingbird," one boy said, temper sharp as the real blades they now had to train with. "Why can't you ever shut up?"

"Minwo, cut it out," another boy interjected. "Let the kid hum. Not like he's half bad anyways."

The hummingbird comment had most definitely been an insult but Julian, young and jovial, had not seen it as such. Instead, he'd latched onto it.

"What's a hummingbird sound like?" He chirped instead, failing to realise the other boy had successfully diverted his brother into sparring once more.

The older boy snapped his gaze towards the younger, lips curling up in a snarl. Curious for entertainment, the other boys paused in their fighting, turning to watch. "It has this-"

A loud booming voice cut him off. Master Ivar Evil-Eye strode into the courtyard with a sense of purpose only the Grandmaster Viper dared wield in the keep of Gorthur Gvaed.

"There will be no lolly gagging in my keep!" Shouted the witcher, prowling onto the scene like a demented wraith. "I'd hope there's a good reason for why you've all stopped sparring?"

The older man stopped at Julian's side, eye softening for all of a moment as he grabbed the young boy and hoisted him up in a hip carry. Just as the other boys sighed in relief - thinking they were off the hook now the boy had distracted the Master - he whirled on them and ordered them to quicken the pace. They did so in a hurry.

"They're working hard," Julian giggled, watching from his new position as the hummingbird boy was dragged back into a heated spar. In no time the boys were sweating again, skin shimmering as they dodged blows that could easily take their limbs were they not careful. It was beautiful to watch.

"Are they indeed?" Ivar huffed, callused hand rising to ruffle through the boy's messy brown hair. The five summers old boy squeaked as those calluses caught on his locks, uselessly batting at the older man's hand as he chuckled deeply. "Then, pray tell, why are you out here disturbing them?"

"They looked sad," pouted the child, intent on making his elder see his logic. He made grabby hands towards the Grandmaster's neck and was rewarded with a shoulder ride, even if Ivar muttered that he was getting too old for such. "I wanted to make them happy!"

"Is that so?" Questioned the man, walking along the outskirts of the boys fighting formations. He rifled off a few instructions to a few on how to improve their stances before coming to a stop in the middle of the courtyard, where the sun shone the strongest.

"Don't stand here. It's warm," moaned the boy, gently tugging at the man's hair because he'd overheard one of the seasoned witchers saying if they tugged too hard it looked as if Ivar's hair would fall out. Julian didn't want that - seeing as he quite liked the older man's long grey hair. Now the beard, on the other hand, could go because it looked downright silly.

"Warm?" Echoed Ivar, exaggeratedly looking up. "What? All I feel is a cool shade, thanks to my new hat."

Julian giggled and draped himself over Ivar's head. "Whaaat? I wanna see your hat!"

"My hat is talking," gasped the man, suddenly reaching up to grab Julian and tug him off his shoulders. The child was tossed up, giggling in delight as he breezed through the air only to be caught in a sturdy grip. He kicked his legs happily as Ivar squinted at him. "What an odd looking hat."

"I'm not a hat!" Julian protested, only to break out into hysterical laughter as Ivar repeated the toss-catch routine. When he'd finished, Julian could barely get any words past his giggles. "I- I'm- hat!"

"You're my hat?" Ivar held him up by his armpits as Julian calmed down, grin bright. "No you're not - you're a boy!"

"'M a boy!" Julian chittered, finally catching his breath as another witcher strolled up beside Ivar.

"Done torturing him yet, Master?" Smirked the man, a rather nice fellow who went by the name Qwenis even though his real name was Jonnas.

"Not quite sure," Ivar hummed, peering up at the boy with an amused eye. Julian looked from him to Qwenis and giggled.

"What's so funny, Squirt?" Qwenis asked, tone light.

Julian beamed at them. "What's a hummingbird sound like?"

"Oh? A hummingbird," Qwenis mulled that over, making fun as he tapped his chin and stuck out his tongue, gaze flitting off to the side as he made a low murmuring sound. The expression made the boy giggle, as it was meant to. "I suppose they hum, don't they?"

"No!" Julian protested. "How do they really sound?"

"Tell you what," Qwenis conspired as he was handed off to him, Ivar sprinting over to natter at a few boys whose posture looked atrocious (according to the man's outraged shouts). "Tomorrow, when the sun rises and the hummingbirds do too, we'll go find a birdie and see what it sounds like, yeah?"

Julian tilted his head. "Me an' you?"

"Yep, us two. What do you say, kiddo?"

"I say yay!" He wriggled. "Put me down, put me down!"

They snuck out as the sun rose and found a hummingbird in a tree. Julian had never heard anything more beautiful. The sharp drone of its wings as it flitted about Qwenis' hand was enrapturing and its gentle little chirps made Julian feel warm inside.

"I think you're like him," Qwenis said, gazing up at the little bird.

"Don't be silly," Julian grinned, brimming with the logic of a child. "I can't fly."

The older witcher smiled down at him, tapping his chest gently. "In there you can."

**NINE**

Julian liked to talk, liked to sing now that he knew the lyrics to the songs. The older witchers sung lots of songs, usually when it was late and the moon was high. When they sung their voices warbled and the lyrics weren't very clear but Julian was sure that was the walls' fault, making them sound weird when he was in bed, because during the day they sounded fine!

Julian was nine summers old, softly singing as he sat out on the parapets of one of the turrets. The older boys, those of fifteen summers upwards, were down in the depths of Gorthur Gvaed, locked away past stone and many doors, screaming because the Trials hurt. Julian sung now to dull out the screams that echoed through the caverns of the Tir mountains. Sung because Ivar was down with those boys, desperately hoping more would survive this year than last. He sung because he wanted to remember those who died and what better way to say goodbye than to sing them songs.

For now, he kicked his legs back and forth, heels tapping off the cool stone of the walls, and murmured soft lullabies, chittered little ditties and choked old tributes as he watched the sun set. Eventually, the sun was gone. The screams were not, ragged and brittle as they were.

It came to sunrise and he was still sitting there. Julian's legs were numb, cold now as he sat and listened to the final pewtering wails. By dawn, with the sun hitting the clasp of around breakfast time, Gorthur Gvaed echoed in her silence once more.

Julian wondered how many older boys were dead. Feared, deep down inside, that when he went through the Trials he would not make it.

Footsteps echoed along the steep tower's steps, a familiar ruffle of a beard greeting him as the man stopped behind him.

"Would you like some porridge?" Ivar queried, setting the bowls between them as if a barrier as he pulled himself onto the post beside Julian. He watched the boy's face for a moment before lifting his slitted eyes up, to look at the sun wafting over the cold, shadowed stone of the Tir.

"We only lost a few," he said in the quiet as he picked up his own bowl and pushed his spoon around in it. "Better than any other year. We're thinking about adapting the formula, might add a few more herbs."

"Thought the herbs balanced each other out?" Julian spoke finally, voice hoarse. He picked up his own bowl, spooning warm oats into his mouth.

"They do," acquiesced Ivar. "But Haemar and I have been discussing it."

"When you're drunk?" His humour had been largely gained from drunk wintering witchers, so it was beyond his age. The older men all seemed to find this amusing.

Ivar snorted a laugh. "No. We've drawn up a few plans. We'll have to test and see if adding more of something does any better - there's no notes left from the official elders so we're..."

"Experimenting?" Julian suggested.

"Trying things out," Ivar finished.

They finished up their porridge, Julian spooning the last dregs of his as Ivar cleared his throat.

"What do you say to going on a walk?"

He liked walks; they meant he could wander around and ogle pretty insects and pick the little yellow flowers that seemed to bloom everywhere. "Through the forest?"

"Down into the hollow," Ivar said.

The hollow was the large gaping cavernous pit that ran between the dangerous slopes of the Tir. It was this pit that required Gorthur Gvaed to have a stone bridge, lest access to the keep become impossible with nothing short of a jump. Grown men had died in the hollow, from falling or slipping in, sometimes even getting lost in it.

"What do you say, kid?"

"What if we get lost?" Because that was the main worry of every man with a brain. Julian may know how to sing but for all his talking he could listen too. "Are there animals down there?"

"I'll teach you the main paths before we go along the others," Ivar assured. "And no, there's nothing more than shadows and your own mind, down in the hollows."

"Okay," Julian grinned.

"Great," Ivar clapped him on the back. "In a week's time, we set out at sunrise."

"Yay!"

A week's worth of sunrises came and went, and the final count found Julian and Ivar standing at a metal pike in the ground, staring at a long thick piece of rope dangling from it. The rope, a bland brown colour, disappeared off into the inky blackess of the hollows. Wind roared in his ears as Julian stared down at it, rhyming off a soft ditty.

"Are we not bringing any equipment?" Julian tilted his head in question when Ivar strode up to him, wearing only his casual leather tunic and trousers. His two fangs, Elsiben and Tornagir, were strapped to his hips but other than that he had nothing.

"This is survival training, in a way," the man waved off, head tilting in the way it did when he winked conspiringly. "Think of it as a timed nature walk."

Julian blinked. "Timed?"

"Well, unless you want to starve down there, I'd like to be back for dinner." Ivar smirked, turning around for Julian to jump on his back. "I'll give you a piggyback down but you'll have to climb up yourself again."

"Okay," Julian cheered, jumping on. His legs knocked against the fangs but they stayed firmly belted in place as Ivar walked over to the rope and bounced down it, clipping along the cliffside.

It seemed in a blink they were on the ground, already having been swallowed up by the gloom of the pit. He jumped off Ivar's back, landing easily on the cool dark stone. They were at least a hundred feet below Gvaed now, deep in the hollow. Julian looked up to Ivar.

"Which way?" Although from above the hollow looked like one giant rift, inside was a different story; there were countless stone passages chiselled into the dark, some man-made, most not. Standing beside the older Viper, Julian wondered if this was what a bug felt like in those great hedge mazes that the older witchers talked about after having done contracts for nobles.

He felt tiny.

"Wherever you want to go first, kiddo," Ivar shrugged.

Deciding there was no better place than forwards, Julian bounced along, twittering but still listening as Ivar began to map out the hollow and talk about how to get himself out if he ever got lost or trapped.

Of course, they got lost.

Such fact was realised three hours later when they passed a stone for the third time, somehow having completed a circuit of a non-connected area. Ivar paused in his latest retelling of a monster hunt Julian had heard about thirty times before and stopped walking.

"We're walking in circles," said the older man, tone a mix between sheepish and miffed.

"What?" Julian pipped up, voice caught in a yawn as he bounced over to Ivar's side. Suddenly, he felt cold, a low breeze running through the hollow, making him crowd closer to the living heater beside him. "I thought you knew your way out?"

"Sometimes the stone shifts, it falls or erodes away," Ivar said, callused hand touching the back of Julian's head as he made sure he stayed with him. This time he sounded apologetic. "Guess we should turn back."

So they turned back. Only to find themselves in an unknown position within the hollow. The sun had long set, dusk falling over the stone and making it cold. Julian was shivering, held in another piggyback as Ivar scaled a particularly jagged wall in hopes of finding out where they were.

"We didn't walk that far," huffed the boy. Ivar was only half way up the rock face when he unsheathed Tornagir to dig her into the stone. "Woah, won't that dull her?"

"Yeah," Ivar grunted, pulling them up bit by bit. "But a blunted blade's better than falling to our deaths."

The boy silently agreed, humming a soft soothing song under his breath as they climbed higher, it getting colder and colder as they went. Eventually, they breached the top, Ivar hauling them both out of the dark grasp of the hollow. He knelt on the ridge, panting for a moment. Julian got off his back, standing on cold legs as he gazed about himself.

"Where are we?"

Julian watched as Ivar looked up, expression instantly darkening.

"Other side of the Tir mountains," grunted the older man. "We'll have to set up camp here. We'd sooner freeze to death climbing than we would burn."

Julian tilted his head, "Does that mean we won't freeze?"

"Better safe than sorry," Ivar said suddenly. "This spring's colder than normal. Let's see if we can find a cave, hm?"

"Okay!" Julian chirped, already bouncing off to scour along the rocky tumult they'd ended up in. The high rock of the Tir mountains towered around them and Ivar knew they'd be lucky to find a cave safe to use that was this far off the usual paths.

They didn't find a cave. The stone was too unstable and the one small alcove they did find was barely big enough for a babe, evidently having been cut in size by a rockfall. Seeing this, Ivar moved them as close to Gorthur Gvaed's main direction as possible and settled down against the rock, Julian curled up against his chest.

"We'll make it back, right?" Julian whispered into the night.

"Of course we will." Ivar assured, even as his tone wavered with his own worry. He held the boy close and, when it got even colder - enough to see one's breath form a misted cloud when they exhaled - in the dead of night, wondered if he should consider praying.

They made it back as the sun dropped the next day. Haemar threatened them with no porridge if they ever pulled a stunt like that again and refused them the stuff anyway. Ivar assured him they would not. Julian pulled out his puppy dog eyes and got the porridge.

**ELEVEN**

When Julian graced eleven summers old, he fell sick. For the first time since he'd been brought to Gorthur Gvaed, he was silent for more than an hour.

At first, it was nothing. A sniffle here, a sneeze there. The other older boys knocked it off due to the colder autumn. The witchers onsite dismissed it as a human child having a cold. Ivar silently worried, but kept his fanatics to himself.

The night it truly kicked off, Julian woke the man he trusted most.

Ivar jerked awake, breath caught on his tongue as he swivelled underneath his furs. He shifted to glance at the door and found it open, Julian huddled there, winter cloak curled around his shoulders even though it was only edging into autumn. The boy was shivering, pale and clammy looking.

Panic bubbled up under the surface quicker than he could suck in a lungful of air. He was on his feet, kneeling before the boy in an instant. Worry sprung forth at the glazed look in his eye and the feeling quadrupled at feeling the heat coming off the boy.

 _Should've known,_ he berated himself. _You knew it couldn't have been a cold. Fool._

"Hey, kiddo," he cooed, leaning up to run a hand over Julian's forehead. "You not feeling too good, hm?"

The boy squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, pushing his face into Ivar's cold hand. His temperature was high, his cheeks beginning to flush. Ivar had a sinking suspicion and peeled back the collar of Julian's sleep shirt to find a mound on his neck, over the lymph nodes.

Scarlet fever.

Ivar felt his heart quake, so he picked up the boy and carried him to the nearest bed. Settled in the older man's collection of furs, the Grandmaster Viper leaned down and swiped the hair out of the boy's face.

"Julian?" He asked softly, getting fluttering eyelids and a pained look in response. The boy slowly looked up at him, shaking with fever chills. "I'm going to wet a towel and put it over your forehead, okay? It'll be nice and cold."

Ivar retreated to grab the cloth from beside his basin, quickly dripping the cloth into the water poured fresh last night. He rung it out as much as he thought would help and quickly reattached himself to Julian's side, settling the cloth over the boy's forehead.

At the contact, Julian let out a low moan, trying to shift away from it. Ivar eased a hand through his hair and settled the cloth wouldn't fall off before hiking up a particularly warm fur to cover the rest of the boy.

"It's okay," he soothed. "Does your throat hurt?"

"An' m' head," Julian croaked, voice coarse and a near whisper. Had Ivar not better hearing than most humans he would've been forced to make the boy repeat himself.

"Okay, I'll go see if I can get anything to help," he whispered, hesitant to leave him. "Do you feel nauseous?"

The boy squinted at him.

"Do you feel like you're going to be sick?"

Julian closed his eyes, looking pale and drawn out. "No."

"Alright, good lad," he comforted, running his hand over Julian's arm through the fur. Ivar left the boy to doze, making sure to be quiet until he was out of the boy's minimal earshot.

Then he stomped. Because Julian was sick and he was angry. Angry this had happened, but not at the boy, afraid he would die because too many passed away due to this, mostly children not past fifteen summers. Boys they put through the Trials at that age were dying elsewhere of fever normal peasants couldn't cure. Most of all, he was horrified by the facts that this could devolve into the chest hacking coughs, or the swollen cheekbones that made skin tender.

Ivar didn't want Julian to die. How ironic it would be to lose the child, and not even to the Trials.

"Need something, Master?" Gerring asked, lulling about like a flop in the kitchens. He was nursing a glass of water, much to Ivar's relief - leave the hangovers to winter, he reckoned. The man was back off the Path early, weighed down by a broken arm after a rough fight with an Archgriffin. He was healing well, although he'd opted to wait it out until winter passed before he went out again.

"Julian has scarlet fever," he grunted, rifling through the cabinets for a pitcher and glass he could fill with water and keep up there. He'd need salve for the rash, if it proved to be itchy and he'd need another basin, should the boy vomit. Something to blunt or dull the pain too, preferably something that wouldn't rip his nerves anew if he consumed it - which meant a human friendly approach. No potions.

"Ah, heard from a peasant boiling coriander and mint leaves with water was good for fevers," offered up the man. He sat by the hearth, watching as Ivar scurried about the kitchens, hunting down what he needed. "Said she used it on her newborn."

"Risky," a new voice said. Haemar strode into the kitchens, joining their congregation despite the moon being high in the sky. "Newborns are best left warm and bathed every now and then. Julian is unwell?"

"Scarlatina."

The potion brewer winced. "I could brew a few human-friendly pain numbers, should you wish it?"

Ivar nodded briskly, "That would be appreciated, Haemar. You have my thanks."

"So quick," Haemar laughed. "I haven't even made anything yet."

He gathered his needed things, placing them all in the basin for easy carriage. The two witchers watched him, silent as he lifted them, intent on making his way to the well to fill the pitcher.

"Thousands die each year," Haemar noted softly as he left.

"I know," Ivar admitted to the cold stone corridors. He knew all too well.

The fear kept him awake as he hunkered down on his knees by Julian's bedside.

Come the second day of fevered gasps and drinks of mint and coriander, the rash appeared. It started along his stomach, quickly trailing up along his chest and spreading to his arms and ears. With its appearance, the boy looked to be blushing, bright red face a striking contrast against his watery, dull eyes. The red and blue reminded Ivar of an old contract along Skellige, dealing with a particularly furious nest of Sirens where much blood had been split into the sea. Those memories made him queasy but he relayed the hushed trite to a half-conscious Julian nonetheless. He wasn't sure if the boy heard him at all.

Ivar pulled the boy up in a cradling hold, murmuring soft nothings as Julian rubbed at the rashes, thick and hard like grit on stone. "It's alright, try not to rub it," he calmed, speaking into the boy's hair more than he was to his face, rocking them back and forth as Julian choked on a sob. "It'll get better."

"Soon?" Gasped the child.

"Soon," Ivar promised even though he couldn't.

As with most things, it got worse before it got better. Except, as Ivar stared down at the limp boy before him, he wasn't sure things would get better.

The fever had raged mightily, requiring more than just the mint and coriander. They'd tried everything from garlic to basil, brewing teas and stewing soups in an effort to bring down his temperature. In the end, Ivar had resorted to copious cloths layered over the boy where there were no furs and had given the boy countless wipedowns when the sweat glimmered on his skin and his hands clenched in unseen fever dreams. By the time a fortnight had passed, the vomiting had stopped. The smell of sickness did not vanish.

Julian barely woke for long enough to eat. He could barely speak past his swollen white tongue. He reeked of inevitable death and Ivar was afraid.

Ivar'd stopped sleeping somewhere along the ten day mark, foregoing his earlier half-hour naps for infrequent bouts of mediation. Worry had carved itself into his skin, he never left the boy's side unless to relieve himself and even then his senses were frayed as he sought to listen to Julian's heartbeat, a task he found hard to do as the organ slowed, becoming sluggish and tired and thus hard to lock onto.

Saovine was nearing, witchers had begun returning to the keep, heads held high after a good year only to falter in confusion at the absence of their Grandmaster, finding only the scent of illness. Some worried he'd died but every time a few began muttering such rumours Ivar coincidentally emerged for a piss break and stormed by the men. To say they were startled would've been an understatement.

Julian looked so weak, so small in the large bed. Ivar looked down at him; saw the bags under his eyes even though he only slept, watched the rash creep along his skin like insects over honey. Ivar looked at him and saw a boy he'd raised longer than most others - for usually the Vipers didn't accept those younger than seven summers.

Ivar looked at him and felt true unadulterated fear at the prospect of losing him. Because to him, Julian was like a son.

"Hold on," he begged one late night, clutching Julian's arm despite the rough gritty feeling under his fingers. "Please," he pleaded, back bent over the bed as he cradled his head in his arms, sickness' murky waft flowing around him. "Don't leave me, son."

He hadn't cried since the Trials had forced the tears out of him. Though now, with the boy gasping fretfully before him, he thought he just might.

A hand rose, sticky fingers touching his own. Ivar startled, head jerking up as he stared at the appendage. His vision was blurred as he gazed at Julian, the boy offering a small but bright smile.

"Don't cry, daddy." The boy whispered, smelling too happy to be bedbound. Just hearing him speak made Ivar smile, the tears finally rolling. "'M not goin' anywhere."

Julian got better.

**FIFTEEN**

When it came time for the Trials, Julian - like most of the other boys - was not given food. For two days coming up to the potions, they were given water and encouraged to clear their stomachs as best as possible to limit their chances of either shitting themselves or vomiting up their insides. Breakfast, lunch and dinner were water.

This year was the new formula test. Usually the Trials would happen during the spring, but this year, due to the new formula taking longer to stabilize, it was nearing Lammas (early August) when it was announced they were ready. The group was large, twenty-three boys in total.

Julian knew what was coming, knew what may happen as the potion really started working; it would either kill him or it wouldn't. Simple as that. It was one big thing, all three usual potions having been mixed as the mutagenic herbs had been changed and swapped around. Ivar had been hesitant to use it this year, probably because they didn't really know how it would go, but Julian had known it was now or never. He reckoned, if he didn't survive this, he wouldn't have survived them anyway.

Eventually, Haemar had ran all the tests he could. There was nothing to say this all-in-one potion would hurt more than the normal ones, and so Ivar had agreed, adding Julian to the rota of slightly older boys whose eldest was nineteen summers.

On the day, they were herded into the stone rooms at the bottom of the donjon, ordered to lie back on straw laying on the ground, the space large but the dividers being mere wooden planks as they masqueraded as cots. Julian had blinked at them but sat down in one, a space away from the next boy. They'd been lined up in order of age; he was the youngest.

Ivar stood back, watching them all as Haemar and Galnta weaved along the line, giving them an odd black potion each. Finally, when every boy had been given one, the two witchers stepped back as well.

"Uncork your vials and drink the entire potion," Ivar demanded, voice taking on his booming tenor that demanded people listen. Julian felt his throat tighten at the thought of drinking this, because he was half sure there was things floating in it as he swirled the potion around in the vial. "May the Trials commence."

The other boys pulled off their corks easily, tipping their potions back in one coordinated move. Julian watched them, seeing boys he did not know scrunch their eyes up against the taste. He was new to this group, having been added in only because the others were too young for him to wait. He may have grown up with these others in the keep but the boys he saw he did not know - he'd always had a penchant for hanging around the older witchers, singing his lyrics as they whistled the tune.

Julian pulled at the cork but found it didn't budge. As the others lay back against their straw, Julian sat, uselessly trying to uncork his vial. He flushed with embarrassment as a hand plucked the vial from him. Ivar crouched in front of him, hair flicked back as he smirked down at him.

"Here, pull don't twist," he grunted, quickly uncorking the vial. As he handed the potion over, he dropped his volume, leaning forth in guise of using his shoulder to help him back up. In his ear, he whispered, "I hope you survive, boy."

Julian made sure to smile up at him as he downed the potion. It took two large gulps that left him feeling winded but he got it down. To his right, where the other boys were, an ear-splitting scream rung out. Then, just as Julian turned to look, a loud burst echoed through the room and guts exploded outwards.

One of the older boys had just exploded. Ivar shouted something that Julian couldn't hear, Haemar and Galnta shifting into movement as the older boys burst outwards, each in a cacophony of sound and blood spray. By the time Julian had processed what was going on, there was a line of boys exploding, the veritable fuse on a grapeshot bomb as it whistled down.

Horrified, Julian could only watch as the boy beside him finally shook, legs and face twisting as his stomach quivered - almost as if there was something inside it, alive and feral - before he split his head back against the floor, howling a scream as he erupted. Now covered in his peers blood and internal organs, Julian sat, feeling sick as he watched the three grown men look to him in sudden fear.

He coughed, spitting out his peers' blood as he shivered, feeling wet and dirty as he looked at the destruction before him.

"Julian?" Ivar asked, voice oddly soft. The man crouched in front of him, hand outstretched as if he was scared to touch him.

"A-am I gonna?" He managed to squeak out, feeling every pore retract, his stomach somersaulted, his back ached and he involuntarily curled in on himself, unable to hear the whimpering choke Ivar gave as he shook. As his arms seemed to come alight in a fire-like pain that positively _seared_ through him, he sealed his mouth shut, biting down hard on his cheek to keep himself quiet as a shrill cry waged war against his throat in an effort to get out.

 _Stop, stop, stop,_ he thought, thoughts taking a manic tone as the world swirled around him. Suddenly, his skin felt warm, an unknown pulse running through him and Ivar was gone, same for the two worried faces of Haemar and Galnta.

In a field, he opened his eyes. Long, luscious green grasses swayed around him. A man with the face of a bear, an arm of a frog and another of a fish's flipper, a leg of a goat and a cow and the tail of a pig, peered down at him. He stood at Julian's feet, staring down with a melodic silence.

The man had the torso of a human, scars littering his chest and stomach. He wore an odd silken garment around his waist, much like a scarf with how it ruffled yet not. In the hand that was a frog's he clutched a pair of heat-shaded tongs. His eyes were sharp like a predators, scorching through his body and looking into his soul all at once.

"You are dying," he said, speaking not in Common nor Elven, nor any language Julian knew. He roared with a guttural low hum in the back of his throat, mouth gaping to show two sharp teeth - like that of a Viper's - and stood like a man, on two legs as he addressed the boy. "Do you wish to answer your riddle?"

Julian could only nod, feeling warm yet cold.

"What is your answer?"

The boy blinked. He had heard no riddle, the beast man in front of him had not spoken one, what was he talking about?

"You are dying," urged the man. "What is your answer?"

The tall grasses swayed, thick and colourful as they cycled from green through the colours of the rainbow, finally settling on a dull yellow. They looked dead, wilting and crisping at the edged to boot. Julian watched as the long strands fell back, revealing a cobbled path just beyond the man. It called to him.

Julian stepped forth, only to be blocked by the beast man. He dropped his tongs, a loud shrill echo reverberating through the meadow as they clattered on soil. "You are dying," he repeated, tone undecipherable. "What is your answer?"

He pushed past him, stepping out of the circle he'd woken in that was barren of everything but soil. A foot on the cobble had his world tilting and he fell sideways, falling through the large heap of dead grasses and tumbling through the dark depths of the seas. As he plummeted he saw fish idle by, a beautiful siren diving down to catch a few shimmering ones with her long talons. Julian blinked and he sat at the edge of a sahara, long sands stretching for days as he gazed over it. An oasis shimmered on the cusp of his vision, bright and sparkling - a toxic blue against the glinting golden shimmers of the sands.

"You are dying," the beast man stepped forth, stopping beside him as he looked over the lands. In the distance, winds whipped the sands up in a tumultuous storm. The sand squealed as it was ripped from the earth, revealing snow underneath. A sun that had never been in the sky faltered and the world tilted on its axis, wavering as clouds rolled over the golden skies and a great lump of snow fell to land in a clump. For a moment, Julian wondered if the man had stopped but then his mouth opened again.

Instead of speaking, green gloop dripped from the maws of the bear. It pooled between the two legs, forming a bubbling surface that was reminiscent of a faerie tale's witches cauldron. Julian twitched over to it, peering into the large bubbles and watching as they popped. The scent of blueberries followed one pop, nuts following another before finally it smelt like home, like the thick curl of a fire in the hearth, the earthly scent of cedarwood and steel that Ivar held. Julian closed his eyes and saw blackness.

He saw the underside of a bush, worms wriggling in fresh soil. He spied the slick of a snake curling behind a tree in the forest beyond the Tir mountains. Julian looked up and beamed at the dark, thunderous loom of cold stone. He smiled at the sight of home.

The bushes ruffled, a Bloedzuiger stomping past only to crash to the ground as a familiar fang embedded herself within its back. Ivar stepped out from the warpath the creature had created, the sharp lines of unearthed soil and rippled roots marking the path the Bloedzuiger's claws had taken. Julian let loose a breath at seeing the man, stepping forth only to be pulled in the opposite direction. As Ivar treaded towards the felled creature to retrieve Tornagir from its back, Julian was pulled through the path they had taken, trailing along the ridges of soil until he stilled.

Roots unearthed, a small yellow buttercup sat, shaking in place as it tried to wriggle back to the ground. Julian stopped before it, crouching to cup the roots and the soil they'd clumped around. Slowly and carefully, he lifted it, gently manoeuvring it into the small ditch the Bloedzuiger had left behind. He settled the plant into the line, patting the soil around it as he hummed an old song about growing up big and strong.

The beast man stood behind him, watching the proceedings in silence. Suddenly, his fish arm flopped out, gently tapping the boy's head. The man groaned something, a meaningful word that Julian heard clearly.

"Jaskier?" The boy echoed, feeling his chest light up and feel warm at the word. "What's that?"

The fish fin flopped away, the frog's hand rising to spear into the boy's chest.

"Me?" Questioned the boy.

The beast man nodded, jaw once again falling slack as a purple liquid poured from under his tongue. Julian looked into it and felt the compulsion to push his hand into it. He did.

Around his skin formed the black of the potion he'd taken before all this. His hand felt warm, a soft tingling that ricocheted through his entire being.

"You will live," moaned the beast man, the forest shaking around them. Trees fell, birds and animals scattering as the world hissed like a large snake. Julian looked up from his hand in time to see a large, black scaled viper coming straight towards him. The beast man was gone suddenly, the snake tipping him back and catching him by his knee, grabbing him in its jaws and flinging him up into the air like Ivar used to. It swallowed him and the murmur of the beast man's voice followed him through the rings of muscle. "Your answer has been received."

Julian slid down the snake's throat, never meeting its end as he was flung out onto cold stone. He blinked and awareness came back to him. He was held aloft in the cot he'd settled in, cradled in Ivar's arms as the man wept and shook over him.

Ivar crouched before him, the polish of his boots pungent, the salt of his tears even moreso. The room seemed bright, even though earlier it had been dark as the hollow. Haemar stood behind Ivar, Galnta to Haemar's side. They reeked of an acrid citrus stench - fear - and a bubbling nettle void - grief. His throat felt tight, seeing none of them looking at him, and so he coughed.

All three men instantly looked to him, eyes wide.

"Julian," sobbed Ivar, clutching him tighter as he grinned. "Oh by the gods, you're alive! Thank you, thank you, thank you! You did so well, son, well done."

"His eyes," started Galnta. Ivar reared back an inch to look at him and broke into an even larger grin, if such was possible.

"You did it, you did it," cheered the older man, rubbing his back. "You're a witcher now, son."

**TWENTY-FOUR**

After his first year on the Path, Julian stopped singing so much. By the time he'd made it back to Gorthur Gvaed he'd cut it late and was tired after passing through a village only to rid it of a witcher's Wraith. When he'd made it back into the warmth of the keep and had sat down with his fellow brothers for dinner, he'd inwardly berated himself for not killing the men.

His second year, he came back and found a new group of boys, waiting to be slaughtered. The formula he'd been borne from had been cast out almost immediately but he couldn't help but look at the boys thinking they'd die. Still, such pains did nothing to stop him from not sparring, and so he got in some good use of his accumulated muscles as he went for a few bloody rounds with Ivar and whoever else would spar with him.

The Pass at the hilt of the valley the Tir mountains were in was guarded by a small human village. It was often the final stop for any witcher, their last chance to refuel and gather supplies before moving onwards to Gorthur Gvaed. Sometimes, when the snows came early and particularly harsh for the South, the humans closed up their shops and bolted shut the welcome gates into the village and thus, the valley. On his third year, Julian was caught out by the snows and had been beaten by a few storms who'd rolled past before he. The Pass was closed and so he went and stayed the winter in an old abandoned farmer's barn on the edge of a town a few miles back.

By his fourth year, Julian had seen most horrors the world could offer him. He'd jumped off cliffs with Harpies on his tail, he'd swam deep with the Sirens using Killer Whale and he'd had his fair share of unwelcoming townspeople. It might've been their frosty attitudes towards him that pushed him further South when he least expected it, before Lammas was barely over.

Tired from a hunt in a marshy bog tracking down a few lost children who'd run too near a Basilisk's nest, Julian had made little fuss with himself and had set up camp in the forest surrounding the valley, outside of the Pass' village. He was tired, he reasoned, that and he didn't want to miss out on wintering in Gvaed again. Once had been enough. His bones still ached from lying on that mossy barns' floor.

"Brother!" A voice called, pulling him out of his meditation fully. He'd been half-in, keeping an ear out for any animals that wandered near in hopes of dinner, and he'd heard the Viper coming from a mile away. Smelt him from three. "What a surprise to see you here so soon!"

"Tomais," he greeted, unmoving. His brother strode into his modest camp and settled down on the ground opposite the fire, warming his hands. The sun had long gone down, the animals going with it, so for now the only sound was the fire crackling, Tomais' hands rubbing together and the stretch of Jaskier's bones as he rolled out his shoulders.

"Julian, oh what tense shoulders you have," chuckled the older man. "You missed the Pass last year?"

"Yes," he said.

Tomais made an odd huffing sound before pulling at his pack - probably to get his bedroll out. "Awfully quiet, brother," noted the man. "Ran out of songs to sing?"

Julian peeled his eyes open, keeping his gaze off the fire as best as possible whilst he stared at Tomais. He made a low humming sound and wondered if he really had sung so much that being in his presence for not even five minutes was telling enough. Then, he decided, it was because he was tired.

"Not just yet," he assured over the whistle of the wind. With it came the scents of dead wood and leaves, the drool of Wargs not five miles off. "Had a contract down near Velen. Paid me fifty crown to go traipsing around the bog to find two children and bring them back. Found them in the middle of a Basilisk nest, wailing their heads off."

"Sounds fun," Tomais snickered. "Although I would've demanded at least a hundred for a Basilisk."

"That's the thing, thought it was just a pick-up contract until I smelt the thing. The kids had wandered in and started kicking apart the nest without even realising it."

The other witcher snorted in disbelief. "And they were alive?"

"All for an arm," he grinned, the two of them sharing over the mirth of stupid peasant children.

**THIRTY**

Come his tenth year on the Path, Julian found himself wandering just about everywhere. In his time, he passed through Temeria, skulked about Rivia and Lyria, fished in Skellige and climbed a few mountains just as much as he fell down a few holes. Perhaps he'd been naïve for his past few years, for as much as he knew humans could shun him and ruin his reputation, he never truly thought they could kill him.

(That Crane witcher was a one-off, he'd long ago assumed. Tired and all too stupid to have left his guard down; the man had essentially gotten himself killed.)

When he was thirty summers old, an age most would either have been long married at or dead at, - for the peasants, at least - Julian stayed in an inn. The town was quaint, a small ramshackle burst of a place that had quickly risen out of dust in the past few years, fed by the ore underneath them. It was a miners town but for all they mined there were just as many farmers as there were miners.

The inn was small but clean enough, with no bedbugs nor lice for Julian to contend with over his clothes. Already he'd been forced to Igni a few decent tunics after the damn lice just _wouldn't die_. As for how he got in: it had been part of a contract's payment. He'd strolled into the town by circumstance, finding a kikimore lurking in the ponds around the gates. The creature had been old but plump, the thick heed of blood and guts signifying it had eaten recently. Julian had made quick work of it, dragging the thing's head into the town to pester the alderman.

Thankfully, the kikimore had been pestering them for an awful long time and there was a contract on it. He'd been tossed a bag of coin instantly, even as he'd left the head on the wrinkly alderman's doorstep. Julian had thanked the man and turned to leave, set on merely passing through, when the man had suggested he stay.

There was a festival tonight, the alder explained, which clued Julian in to why the children he'd seen were wearing flower crowns. The alderman had urged him to attend, saying there would be plenty of beer and that the news the beast had been slew would be widely received as wondrous.

Hesitant but mulling over how he hadn't been allowed in an inn in a long while, Julian had agreed. He'd walked through the town centre, noting a large fountain that had evidently been hand carved standing proud as a gaggle of children chipped coppers into the running water. A messenger boy scurried about, whispering to large lumbering men who stared booming about a bonfire. On his way to the inn he received no nasty looks nor glares, only shy smiles and respectful nods.

Julian truly thought he'd ended up in a town that actually _liked_ witchers. He thought it was a miracle.

Now, as he was roused out of his meditation by a messenger boy knocking at his door, insisting the alderman wanted to see him because the festivities were starting, Julian stood and wondered if the warm thing in his stomach was excitement. He passed through the inn, leaving his fangs safely sheathed by his bags, nodding to the elderly innkeeper as the boy flitted ahead of him.

He stepped out into the street, privately remarking at how it was more of a boulevard with how wide it was, made so for the mine carts they tugged along it on tracks pressed into the packed dirt. The messenger boy led the way through the surprisingly large crowd, bringing Julian to the alderman.

A beer stein was pushed into his hands as the alderman worked on riling the crowd up, announcing the riddance of the beast plaguing them. Julian stood there, listened to the praises and wondered if he'd been drowned in a ditch or if he'd finally overdone it with the potions and the toxicity had knocked him for a real one.

When the announcements were over and the alderman had played up the kikimore's death enough, a few musicians entered the town centre and began playing an upbeat tune. Quickly, everyone fell into a large circle dance, women twirling from partner to partner as their long dresses flared and the flowers were tossed high.

Uncomfortable with standing by the grinning alderman in silence, Julian decided to make conversation - a much harder task now than it would've been a few decades ago. "I don't believe I asked if there was circumstance for all this?"

The alderman swallowed a large gulp from his own stein. "Ah, this is our celebration of our small town's building, Master Witcher. Every year we celebrate to mark our time of beginning."

He smelt sour; a lie.

Julian nodded as he silently looked around, guising it as him watching the dancing. What the man said didn't add up either; the buildings were made from native trees that naturally thickened its wood during winter and only remained so if it had been cut then. The entire town was built from the same wood, every building sporting a speckled off-white colour. It was certainly thick, indicating it _had_ been cut in the winter. It was currently mid-summer. There was no way the town was built in summer if this was an anniversary festival.

 _So why celebrate now?_ _Why lie?_ He mused. A young girl shuffled up to him.

"Mister!" The girl chirped, beaming up at him. She was missing her two front teeth, no older than eight summers. "Can you put this on me, please?"

A flower crown was shoved into his hands, the girl having to jump to reach. She bounced on her tiptoes and fluttered her eyelashes in a way her father probably thought to be cute. "Please?"

Julian hated kids.

Nevertheless, he bent down on one knee and raised the crown as if it was real. The girl smelt overjoyed.

"For My Lady, Her Highness," he announced, dramatically placing the crown on her head. She giggled and clapped. Julian stared at her bright brown eyes and caught movement in them. They twitched, once, to just above his right shoulder. The musk of a man swayed closer.

Julian turned in time to catch the pickaxe that had been aimed at his throat. He stood, pushing the man backwards as he did so, and was rewarded with the man falling on his ass.

"Ah," murmured the alderman, who'd been standing there watching the whole thing. At Julian's sharp gaze, he paled. "Please forgive Mikkael, he's awfully clumsy. Trips on his own two feet more oft than not."

The dancing had stopped. The town was silent, waiting with baited breath. Julian let his eyes flick to the mass of sticks and wood they'd been creating a bonfire with and crashed to reality.

"You were going to burn me," he snarled, tone lower than even he thought it could go. Suddenly, he regretted leaving his fangs behind in that small inn room. "You bastards, you were going to _burn_ me!"

That was when all hell broke out. The men charged with whatever they had, be it an axe or a fist, whilst the women cowed back, dragging amused children with them.

 _This town is sick,_ Julian thought and ducked every blow he could. By the end of the night, he found himself trudging out of the town, hurrying out the way he came as he shouldered his bags and fled, a few new bruises littering his body. The last thing he needed was a price on his head and if he stayed any longer he wouldn't have a head.

A year later the town refused pay to a Cat witcher and was burnt down for its trouble.

**YEAR OF THE PIGMI: 832**

_"There will come a time in every witcher's life where he simply forgets his age."_ Ivar had said this to Julian one night and he'd simply brushed it off, laughing that the old men were losing their marbles.

It was true.

By the time Julian tired of the Path and his name, he didn't even know how old he was.

Julian had been exhausted, caught out too many times and weighed down by the time he realised things weren't right. When he'd sat down in a backwater village's tavern he'd come to the realisation that Julian had been for the innocent boy who'd sung of flowers. The name Julian no longer fit; using it felt like trying to shove another potion into his potion bag, the sensation akin to when he had to tac his horse before riding out of a village that had turned cutthroat very suddenly.

It was around the eighth century when he realised Julian wasn't working. From that, he could assume he was around two hundred summers old. At that point he was getting comments from the other witchers, saying he was looking good for his age whilst boys turned later than him were already dropping like flies with creaky bones. They were the weak ones, for Ivar was still standing strong and he was older than all.

The keep was slowly getting less and less full each year. Where over fifty tables had once been filled by half their numbers alone now their remaining spawn barely fit into thirty. Ivar was looking right as rain, same for a few others he'd been close to as a child, but most were dead. Nowadays their numbers were made up at winter by other witchers from different school, men or women who'd travelled too far to get back to their own keep and were welcomed with open arms to Gorthur Gvaed so long as they survived the hike.

Maybe that was why he finally felt comfortable using the name he'd been gifted after his Trials. Because half the men he thought he knew were dead.

Saovine had long passed, gone with it the reluctance to drink. Winter was in full swing now, the Pass at the nape of the valley long sealed. The village down there was dropping in numbers and there was a bet floating round the keep on how long they'd last before they packed up and left.

Ivar had it on a year. A few said after this winter. Jaskier didn't really care.

It was in the dusk he felt most comfortable, so he left it 'til then before he approached the man he saw as his father. Ivar was in his office, as he usually was nowadays, and took kindly to the intrusion. Jaskier was sure it was the White Gull he brought along but he didn't confirm it aloud.

"What's got your tongue, son?" Ivar asked suddenly, snapping Jaskier out of his daze. He blinked, realising he'd been staring at a stone above the hearth. His glass was untouched. Ivar had worked through half the bottle already.

 _Old bastard._ He thought.

"I-" was where he started and then realised he really didn't know how to say what he wanted to. He grunted and rocked back on the chair he'd claimed opposite Ivar. He thought of Qwenis, long dead now after a contract one too many, and remembered he'd been the same.

He cleared his throat and knocked back his glass. Ivar's golden eye called to him so he stared into it and explained, "My name is Jaskier."

Ivar nodded, pouring himself a top-up as he motioned for Jaskier's glass to do the same. "I was wondering when you'd tell me."

Jaskier tilted his head, pushing his glass over the wooden desk for a refill.

"I've seen the way you reacted to your old name, kiddo," Ivar chuffed, filling his glass and nudging it back. He grabbed his own and raised it. "Here. A toast to a good time, Jaskier."

Jaskier grinned and knocked their glasses together. "So, old man, get out at all this year?"

"I'll have you know I'm only three hundred years older than you, Squirt!"

"Three hundred?" He made a show of squinting, feeling at home as the fire roared on, filling the air with the scent of cedarwood. "And here I was thinking it was half a millennium more!"

Ivar snorted his White Gull and spent the next five minutes crying.

**YEAR OF THE MANDRAKE: 967**

Jaskier oft wondered why he bothered to make the trek along the Orvcard Valley and up the Tir mountains but then he got there, rode through the drawgate and felt this innate sense of _relief_ that he was home and remembered.

Usually Ivar would come out to meet him, as the older man had a thing for hanging out around the gates after Saovine - as that was when most witchers began returning for the winter. This year though, it seemed it was different.

He hadn't made it up the valley the last few years, due to unfortunate cascading events; the first of which involved his horse, Jool, dropping dead an overgrown spider poisoned him, the second years' involving a prolonged contract too far North that had actually trapped him out in the snow and the third involving him losing track of time somewhere near Oxenfurt and spending _far_ too long off his rocker on Fisstech. As he said - unfortunate events that cascaded and meant he was too late in getting to the valley before the annual storms rustled round and caused just enough stone and tree fall that it became near impossible to traverse, witchers included.

But now, this year, he was here. Mainly because he'd fallen down hard and had nearly been killed by a rowdy farmer in his back fields after a failed Griffin hunt and he'd been severly put off humans for long enough that he'd ran out of coin that it dented his metabolism.

His current horse, a bitter gelding by the name of Lokko who despised squirrels with a passion, would be retiring soon. He reckoned this would be his last year on the Path as Jaskier led him down along the final strip of a stone path before Gvaed's bridge. The trail was treacherous but nothing he couldn't handle. Although his gelding stumbled and startled once and that took a near full minute to calm him.

"Your horse is for shit," a voice snarked, a boy appearing as the drawgate lifted. He had modest brown eyes and close-cut black hair. A strong brow and a decent enough stance as he crossed his arms and stared Jaskier down. "Why don't you just put him down?"

Jaskier tilted his head at him in a way he knew unnerved people but the boy didn't budge. Amused, he decided to answer. "Had to get here first, didn't I?"

Surprisingly, the boy looked _excited_ now. "Can I kill him? I've always wanted to do it, I've seen the old smithie back home do it tons a' times."

A new one then. New enough to remember a place before Gvaed and old enough to have liked it. Sometimes Jaskier wondered where Ivar found these kids and if he didn't bring them in then who the fuck did.

The fact he wanted to kill Lokko was also mildly startling. Jaskier figured why the brat was here almost immediately.

Classical delinquent. Probably been kicked out of the village and picked up along the way.

"How old are you, kid?" He asked instead of answering the question. Jaskier stepped around the kid, noting with a huff that he was blocking the middle of the gate by standing there, and led Lokko around to the stables.

"What's it matter to you?" The kid scowled. Certainly had an attitude on him. "You don't look older than my old man."

Jaskier grunted and tugged on Lokko's reins as the gelding stalled in the middle of the entrance courtyard.

"Annoying someone other than me, Letho?" Ivar's voice came, mirthful as it was serious. "Are you feeling well?"

With a snort, Jaskier half led, half pushed Lokko into a stall before shoving some hay inside. He unslipped his saddle, already having started to undo it on the bridge as he'd started lagging. The saddle found itself hung up on a hook as the gelding got a quick brushing down after being relieved of Jaskier's saddlebags.

When he stepped out of the stall, nose dry at the waft of hay, he found Ivar and Letho loitering in the courtyard still. He picked up his saddlebags and made his way over to them.

"I hope youre retiring him this year, son?" Ivar asked, obviously referring to the horse that had all but limped its way in. Jaskier sighed and rolled out his neck, hearing the bones crack loudly as Letho fake gagged at the sound.

"If I don't I'll end up shoving him down into the hollow," he grunted, trying to hold off on physical expressions so long as the kid was lingering. Ivar smirked at him and held his hands out and Jaskier crumbled, rocking into his arms and digging his nose into the older man's neck.

The scwnt of cedarwood and steel reassured him. He was home.

"Are you guys gonna get frisky?" The kid queried, sounding joking. "Want me to leave?"

"Shut it, brat," snapped Ivar good naturedly. He rubbed at Jaskier's back as he leaned back, Ivar nodding at him. "Good to see you, son."

"Been away too long," Jaskier grumped, straightening himself as he gripped his saddlebags. He felt heavy in his armour, only wanting to get inside and relax. He hadn't been expecting a new batch of trainees.

"I can see that," Ivar hummed, eyeing the patch in his armour left over from the shoddy repairs he'd been forced to make after the farmer had made good use of his pitchfork. "Anything exciting?"

"Hate farmers," he managed, watching as the kid flipped a dagger nonchalantly. Ivar rolled his eyes as if to say _ignore him_ so he did.

"What?" Laughed Letho, suddenly mocking. "You're afraid of farmers? Was it their hay? Or the cows?"

Jaskier growled at him, frowning. "You won't like them much either when you go out to help one and get speared through the stomach by a pitchfork."

Ivar's hand curled around his wrist, tugging him into the keep. Jaskier went, spying the way Letho paled at his words.

"Didn't know there was a new batch," he huffed, dropping his things in the entrance. Ivar went into the kitchens so he followed, feeling a tad like a lost Katakan pup.

"Only have six this year," Ivar said, working on reheating him the stew on the stone. Go figure he'd missed lunch. "We're hoping to give them more muscle this year."

"Oh?" He muttered, nearly inhaling the stew before he'd grabbed a spoon. Ivar watched him with sad eyes. "Stop that. This come after that kid starved himself to death?"

That had been all the chatter. He'd managed to run into Gerring at some point before the summer - before the farmer incident - and had learnt one of the relatively young witchers had went on fast during winter and had effectively used his demanding metabolism to starve himself to death. That had went down a treat with the others, the man had said, sounding uncomfortable even thinking about it.

"Alcon was never happy here," Ivar whispered, reaching out for his bowl to refill it when he finished. "You'd better make sure you don't pull a stunt like he did, accidentally or not."

Jaskier swallowed a wince past another mouthfull of stew. And here he was thinking his ribs weren't that prominent. "Rough year," he said briskly, because that was the thing, it _had_ been. He'd barely gotten any contracts at all.

"There's a group of humans going around thinking they're witchers," Ivar hissed. "We've a few Cats with us this year. Judging from their chatter they'll be dead by the spring."

"But?" Jaskier pried.

Ivar shook his head. "Nothing. Feel free to eat the rest." And then he walked out. Jaskier wasn't sure whether to feel loved or ignored so he settled on shrugging and eating the rest because, in his defense, he'd been offered it. Plus, dragging a horse up a forested valley and a mountain was hard work.

Letho found him in the library. He wasn't too sure how to feel about the kid, seeing as he'd technically threatened his horse's existence. But then, he reasoned, the horse _was_ about to kick it anyways.

Nose buried in some book he couldn't care less about, he hummed as the door swished open. The soft lilting titter of cherries and candles carried over to him and Jaskier pulled his head up from the back of the couch to blink at the kid as he stopped in front of him.

"You wanna sit down?" Jaskier grunted, not yet ready to relinquish his full body sprawl over the softest seat in the whole keep.

"The old man says you should go to bed," snapped the kid. He proceeded to stand there expectantly, as if Jaskier cared. He dropped the book back over his eyes - he was _reading_ \- and let out a low hum.

"Well?" The kid finally lost his temper. "Aren't you gonna get all annoyed like earlier?"

Jaskier wondered for a moment if the kid had seen his aggressively chomping down the stew in the kitchens but then realised he hadn't heard him. Maybe- this was what Ivar had left to do. To make the kid apologise.

He snorted. "No."

The silence returned. Letho shifted.

"Why aren't you angry?" Hissed the boy, his scent changed and Jaskier recognised it going sour. He was about to say something he didn't want to and he knew it.

Jaskier saved him the trouble, arm shooting out to grab the boy's tunic and pull him into an awkward one-armed and one-sided hug. "It's alright, kid," he assured as Letho made a weird choking noise. "I forgive you. Now fuck off and let me sleep."

With that he released the brat and listened as he stumbled away, simultaneously amused and concerned by how many curse words the kid knew as he heard him muttering under his breath. Jaskier clamped down on a snort as it rose, breathing out though his mouth as he rolled over.

Letho slammed the door behind him. "Don't talk much, do you, whoreson?"

He woke to Ivar sitting in the chair opposite, reading the book that had been on his face earlier by the firelight.

"Kid's cute," he assented. Ivar's lips twisted into a smirk. Jaskier grabbed the pillow behind his head and chucked it at him. "Fuck off, old man."

"You adore me," snickered the man, acquisitioning the pillow for his own usage. "I'm your father."

"And somehow still old enough to be my great grandfather," Jaskier jabbed. There was no White Gull for Ivar to choke on this time, as there usually was, and so he bellowed out a laugh.

**In 1159 Gorthur Gvaed would fall to the marching Army of Nifgaard.**

**In the early dawn of the first day of 1163, Jaskier would reclaim the Tir and Gvaed as property of Vipers of the Viper Witchering School. He would do so with a mere ten witchers by his side.**

**The Usurpers blood was split over a field of buttercups. He died in agony** **at the blade of a man long dead.**

**Author's Note:**

> said to myself I wouldn't get involved with the characters. now I'm emotionally attached to Ivar and my heart hurts.  
> feed the comment monster, please, lest you be ambushed on the Path.


End file.
